


There Is Always Light, Even In The Darkest Of Times

by Barbara69



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to “I Chose Disgrace, Where There Was No Honor In Obedience”. It makes sense to read that story first to have the background to this one.</p>
<p>Takes place five years after the events in I Chose Disgrace. French troops are deep into Spain and war still rages over the lands...</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is Always Light, Even In The Darkest Of Times

**Author's Note:**

> I had this story/chapter in my head all the time while writing I Chose Disgrace, but discarded the idea. After I had posted the story I realized that I needed to add that epilogue, because – for me – the story was not really finished. So, the last chapter comes now as a short one shot. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to M_LadyinWaiting(Tanis) for the beta.

_5 years later_

War raged over the lands, covering them with death and despair. Small battles had been won on both sides, but they meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. No victory that would bring an end to the war had been achieved on either side. No side was willing to capitulate and bring its people relief from the suffering.

Even after years of war King Louis still could not forget and not forgive the embarrassment Spain had caused him with the traitor Rochefort, whom he had trusted more than anyone else. Whenever he thought about how he had been blinded by the Comte de Rochefort over the parentage of his son, how he had been talked into signing the death warrant for the queen, willing to kill both on false accusations, he still felt hot and blinding anger and was not willing to condone that King Philipp had so willingly accepted the risk of losing his sister out of greed to gain leverage over France. That beguilement had hurt. But Louis had changed, as sovereign as well as a man; deception, war and life had taken its toll on the king. The death of his second-born son Philippe after the hard winter in 1634 had touched the king to the quick. And when the French troops had wearily and for weeks gone without any hint of success, Louis had decided to join them on the battlefield and on their march towards Madrid. Seeing their sovereign ride into battle with them, side by side, had brought new energy to the soldiers. They overran Zaragoza with great success the very next day and stabilized their position in Catalonia. 

With his appointment as Minister of War, and the consequent responsibility for the strategy, planning and tasks the war with Spain brought, Tréville was always at the king's side now. He had not seen Athos or any of his brothers since their new captain had led the Musketeers to the border and into war, but he had made sure he'd received every report Athos had sent. More than once Tréville returned a missive not only with new orders and strategic instructions, but also a request for how Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan fared. They were still alive, despite the battle wounds and war weariness they all had accumulated during the years, and Tréville was content with that knowledge.

*******

Tréville rode with the king and an infantry battalion and had planned to reach Alhama de Aragón in the afternoon. They literally stumbled over the Musketeer Regiment which was on their way to the same destination, coming down from the Sierra de Moncayo with the intention of joining the king's troops on the march to Madrid. Athos and Tréville greeted each other with visible relief, both men glad to see the other one alive. With Athos and his regiment flanking the right side of the king's battalion they continued on when suddenly, they came under heavy attack. It seemed that they soon would be completely overrun by the Spanish infantry unit, for many soldiers were native-born Saracens, feared for their combat style, absolute deadly in hand-to-hand fight.

Shortly after they had been ambushed, Tréville was separated from Louis and pushed further and further away. He tried to make his way back to the king, a fruitless effort. Through the surge of soldiers and the noise of clashing swords, firing muskets and the cries of the wounded, Tréville saw Louis fall. It was impossible to get nearer to the king and with two Saracens fighting him, Tréville needed every bit of experience and strength he could muster to stand his ground. When both opponents had been dealt with he had a short moment to let his eyes roam over the ongoing battle, frantically searching for any sign of his king. Finally, he saw d'Artagnan slashing with his rapier wildly at a handful of men, Athos at his side, brandishing his rapier and dagger, continually shouting furiously at someone behind him. Not shouting, Tréville realized, Athos was barking orders. Tréville saw Aramis, who had bent over someone, come up now, raising the king as he came to his feet. D'Artagnan and Athos meanwhile had cut down their enemies to two, and soon both were dealt with as well. Tréville had to look away from this scene because he was assaulted anew and when he had time to look again, Athos and Aramis had hauled the king over to a group of trees where horses had gathered or been gathered by someone. Tréville started to move towards his men, ceaselessly fighting off enemies. 

By the time Tréville reached the small gathering, Aramis and d'Artagnan had heaved the king up on one of the horses. Louis was clearly unconscious, bleeding from a gash on the side of his head and Aramis, already mounted behind the sovereign, was frantically attempting to discover the source of the blood dripping down from the king's left arm. Whatever had caused the bleeding, it must have found its way between the armor covering the upper body of the king and the leather vambraces he wore. When Tréville saw the royal blood trickling onto the ground, he hoped it was not the king's heart bleeding out.

“How is he,” Tréville shouted the moment he was within earshot.

“Losing too much blood. We need to find a place where I can look at the wound.” Aramis did not even look up but continued with his attempt to stuff his sash into the king's armor. “Probably a musket ball, might still be stuck in the flesh.”

Through the haze of the battle, Porthos tried to make his way towards the small group, engaged in fighting off Spanish soldiers. He was limping heavily due to a cut in his upper leg which bled briskly.

Since the regiment's marksman was occupied with the king, Athos dealt with shooting approaching soldiers, though soon the loaded weapons were spent and none of the men could be spared to reload them. He threw away the last pistol and unsheathed his rapier again.

“D'Artagnan, Porthos, mount!” Athos tirelessly swung his rapier, cutting, thrusting, slashing at whatever came in his line. “Go back to that village we passed earlier. Move! Now!” 

Porthos had trouble mounting the horse he had grabbed and d'Artagnan started over to help the bigger man up into the saddle. However, before the Gascon could reach Porthos, he was hit by a bullet and the force of the impact caused him to stumble and crash into the steed his brother had tried to mount. The horse shied and bolted away. D'Artagnan fought to breathe through the sudden waves of pain and tried to come up again. Immobility on the battlefield was worse than being weaponless.

Porthos grabbed the younger man by the shoulders, frantically looking him up and down. Blood already stained his doublet, the musket ball must have hit him in the side. If they were very lucky, the bullet had glanced off ribs and had not caused damage to any vital organs. D'Artagnan swayed. 

“Aramis go! Take the king to safety! Go. Now!” Athos shouted and looked over to Tréville who had mounted the only horse left. They locked eyes for a brief moment, conveying everything that needed to be said with that look. “We will find you later,” Athos added, already turning around to parry the next approaching soldier.

Tréville cursed, then turned his stallion around and spurred it to follow Aramis. Soon the clashing of the battle died down.

Aramis led them through thick woods and then back on a small road, though it was not easy to steer his horse with the unconscious king in front of him. “It shouldn't be far now. The hamlet must be nearby, and as far as we could see from the distance there was a monastery as well. There we should get help.” 

“How is he?”

“Bleeding,” was all Aramis offered.

Tréville knew that the brusque reply was not intended to offend, but born out of Aramis' fear for their king as well as for his brothers they had had to leave behind.

Here in these parts of Spain that supported the French king rather than the Crown of Castile, they had only to avoid the ambuscades sent out by Madrid. Tréville kept a sharp eye out, since Aramis was preoccupied with his patient, and shortly, by the mercy of God, they approached the hamlet Aramis had spoken of without incident. And indeed on the outskirts of the small village there was a small abbey, if the church and the monastery complex was not used as something else. When they neared the abbey they realized that it was not a monastery but a convent, but that might prove even more helpful. Nuns might be more inclined to help foreign soldiers and were less likely to try to fight back once they recognized them as French. 

With Aramis' fluency in Spanish and his natural charm it was not a problem communicating with the sister they found at the gate. 

“We are in dire need of help, Sister, please show us to your infirmary, should you have one here at all, so that we can take care of our wounded.”

The nun, who eyed them suspiciously, took in the battered state of the men before her, she perceived the engraved cross on Aramis leather pauldron as well as the expensively tailored armor the king wore.

Aramis wondered if the fleur-de-lis on the king's armor clearly revealed him as the French sovereign or if he might pass as a nobleman in the service of France.

The nun looked up. “We are bound to Christian charity and will not turn down anyone who is in need, be it friend or foe. You may treat your king here as long as it takes, but this house welcomes whoever comes and asks for entry. So you might not want to linger.”

Aramis drew in his breath sharply and his eyes widened. He looked over to Tréville. If the nun had clearly recognized Louis, others might as well, and there was imminent danger should other inhabitants of this convent or passers-by be not so well-disposed towards their sovereign.

Tréville nodded to the nun and dismounted. “Thank you.” He helped Aramis with moving the still unconscious king down from the horse and then they supported him between the two of them, following the sister who led the way to the infirmary. They left the horses to their own devices, hoping that someone would take care of them.

The nun led them to a small annex crouched in the shadow of the church. Though it was not big there were several small rooms, and one bigger room with a number of cots separated by curtains hanging from hooks on the ceiling. This was the room the nun ushered them to, stopping at the door.

“Our Sister Infirmaria will help you and make sure you have everything you need.” She nodded towards another nun who sat with her back to them by the only cot which was occupied by an elderly woman. The nun seemed to have just finished whatever task she had been busy with and now rose and turned around upon hearing her sister talk. The bowl she had in her hands clattered to the ground and she stared at the small group at the door. 

Both Musketeers had problems suppressing the surprise they felt upon seeing Sister Camille, Tréville unsure how or if he should react.

Sister Camille recovered quickly, picked up the bowl again and came across the room, addressing the other nun. “What is this, Sister Elena?” 

Before the nun could answer, Tréville spoke. “We are in need of your help, sister. We have a wounded individual here who needs immediate treatment. We have been offered the use of the infirmary.”

“Best we take him to another room where you will have quiet and space to work. Come.” Sister Camille scraped by them and showed them to a small room which was used as a treatment room with a single table in the center of it that could be used for operations and other treatments. 

Aramis and Tréville laid the king on the table and Aramis immediately started to work on the buckles and straps of the king's armor, stripping off everything between his hands and the wound. 

“You'll find everything you need over here, including surgical instruments. I'll bring hot water.” Sister Camille turned and left the room.

Tréville, beside her with a few vigorous steps, grabbed Sister Camille by the arm and dragged her halfway into a small room on the other side. “Marie,” he breathed, and managed to put all his longing, love and passion into this one word. 

“It's Sister Camille now, Jean,” she said softly and looked up to him. When she saw all the emotions shining in his eyes, she added, “Later. We must see to the king now.” She freed herself from his grasp and scurried away.

Tréville returned to Aramis, who had finished disrobing the king and was preparing himself now, having already removed his weapons, armor and doublet. The healer was in the process of rolling up his sleeves.

“Seems the bullet is still in, and too close to the heart for my liking. I'll try to extract it and close the wound. He has already lost too much blood.” 

Tréville stepped beside the king, taking a closer look now at the wounds.

“The head wound seems to be just a gash, maybe from his fall. We can look at it later,” Aramis declared, but his concern for the king lingered in his voice.

After Sister Camille had brought hot water, Aramis and Tréville washed their hands and cleaned the bullet wound with alcohol before they started with their treatment to the king. Aramis worked as quickly and efficiently as he always did, and soon the bullet was located and extracted and he sewed up the wound. Tréville and Sister Camille had assisted and they all had worked silently, aware that it was the King of France whose life they tried to save. The latter had remained unconscious all the time and still showed no signs of awakening, even as Aramis started to work on the gash in the head.

When all wounds had been treated, including the minor ones of Tréville and Aramis, neither of whom had come out of the battle unscathed, there was nothing more to do than wait for the king to wake.

The weeks and months of traveling long distances, fighting ambushes and small battles, with far too little sleep, had worn down Aramis and very soon he was unable to fight sleep anymore. Sister Camille showed him to a spare room with only two cots, which was used as an isolation ward but had no occupants at the moment. The room was just opposite of where the still unconscious king lay so Aramis would swiftly be there if need be. Tréville assured Aramis that he would keep watch over the king and wake him for change of watch in a couple of hours.

Sister Camille had retired as well and another nun had taken over care of the single occupant in the infirmary throughout the night. Once in a while she came to look after the king as well as Tréville and when it became clear that Tréville also had problems staying awake, she offered to look after the still unconscious king for a while, so the older man could take a nap. She promised to sit by the king's side and wake them instantly should there be any shift in the king's condition. Naturally, Tréville declined since he would never entrust a Spanish nun with the king's life. However, he decided to lie down for a couple of minutes to regain some strength. He walked over to the small room where Aramis lay and stretched out on the other cot where he had an unobstructed view of the king in the other room. It didn't take more than half a minute before Tréville was fast asleep. 

In the early morning hours, Tréville woke cursing before he was even fully conscious, for allowing himself to be lulled by the nun's offering and failing at his duties. His eyes instantly moved to the door, only to see that the door of the room where they had treated the king was closed now. He groaned again. Aramis was still sleeping but came awake when Tréville climbed out and grabbed the weapons he had deposited beside the bed. 

“How is the king?” Aramis asked, wasting no time with pleasantries.

“I hope still alive.” When he saw the questioning look on the marksman's face he added, “I foolishly fell asleep and the nun on night guard obviously deemed it unnecessary to wake me again, or you for that matter. Let's hope Louis is still here and not already on his way to Madrid, captive of the Spanish.” He cursed under his breath and was already on his way towards the other room while Aramis quickly donned his boots as well and followed his former captain.

Tréville opened the door and both men stopped on the threshold to the room, taking in the sight before them. The king was awake, propped up on the table with a few blankets serving as pillows, slowly sipping broth or some such from a bowl in his hands. Beside the king sat Sister Camille, and it looked like they had been interrupted in a conversation by the arrival of the men. 

“Sire, how are you?” Tréville stepped at the king's side, glaring briefly at the sister, hoping his message would be clear.

The nun rose and left the room after she had told them that she would bring something to eat for both men as well.

“I am fine, Tréville, though I think I would feel even better if I had not been shot by Spanish lansquenets at all.” Even on a makeshift operating table in a convent, dressed only in breeches and bandages over his bare chest, Louis managed to look royal.

“Thank God you are awake and recovering, Sire.” Aramis had also stepped towards the king.

“Yes, though I think the thanks must go to you. I was told it was you who saved my life and stitched me together.”

“May I take a look at the wounds, Sire?” Aramis asked, waiting for the permission before he started to unwrap the bandages.

Tréville left the room again and waited for the arrival of Sister Camille, pacing up and down in the small corridor. When she came back, he once more dragged her over to the small room they had used before, and started speaking in a hushed tone. “I don't think it is a good idea that you are anywhere near the king.”

“Do you not trust me? Do you fear I might try to assassinate him?” The hurt look and shock about such an insinuation was clearly written on her face.

Tréville in turn now also looked shocked. “Of course not! I am only in fear that he might find out who you are. You must stay away from him, it's too dangerous if he finds out.”

“He asked for my name after he came awake, he knows I am Sister Camille.”

“Marie, please.....”

“No. It is my duty as sister in the name of our Lord as well as infirmarian of this order to take care of him. And he is still my king. You know that I never supported Maria de' Medici. If it were up to me, no harm will come to the king. Do not fear, my fate lies in the hands of a higher power than the one of the French king.”

“Marie...” Tréville tried once more to reason with her, but was hushed by a finger on his lips.

“You both must eat now, and when I am back from terce we can talk.” Sister Camille turned and walked towards the door. “I am glad the Lord has bent your steps toward our convent.” Then she was out of the door.

Tréville followed her back to his king.

********

Tréville and Aramis discussed what their next steps should be. While the king needed more time to recover and was not in a state to ride, they both believed it essential to leave the convent as soon as possible and rejoin their troops. The risk that Spanish soldiers would find them here, with only Tréville and Aramis to defend the king, was too high. Louis, naturally, had declared that he could mount a horse and ride at any given moment.

Their consultation was interrupted by a nun who came to the room they had been allocated and moved the king to, still inside the infirmary. Both men looked up expectantly to the nun they had never seen before and who spoke in quick Spanish, not caring if she would be understandable to the Frenchmen.

“ _Señores_ , there are soldiers at the gate and they demand to see your king. You'd best come at once.” She turned and was gone before any of them could react.

Tréville and Aramis shared a quick glance, then Aramis rose and drew both pistols, holding one in each hand, ready to use. He nodded and left the room, Tréville also pulled his weapons and placed himself on the threshold. Whoever came to claim his king would have to get past him first.

When Aramis stepped out of the infirmary he immediately saw that a handful of riders had already passed the gate and were inside the courtyard. One blinding second he felt his heart miss a beat before his eyes took in the blue cloaks, and he recognized the single man who was already walking towards him. Athos. Aramis took a couple of steps towards his approaching captain and when they hugged each other, all the relief and devotion both men felt went into the hug. 

“The king?”

“Alive.”

Athos briefly closed his eyes and turned to give orders to his men to dismount. When he turned towards Aramis again he saw the other one scrutinize him closely.

Then the marksman's eyes drifted over to the group of men dismounting their horses and when his eyes had found d'Artagnan and Porthos he let out a short sigh of relief. “We have a beautifully equipped infirmary here, you best all go inside so I can take a look at you.”

Porthos had already made his way towards them, limping heavily, and gave Aramis a bear hug before he replied to the remark. “For you, anything,” and he grinned broadly.

“I'm glad to see you, brother,” Aramis responded softly, then his eyes once more sought out the figure of his youngest brother who was only now in the process of dismounting, clearly not as jauntily as usually, and Aramis started to make his way over to him. When he had reached the Gascon, who looked pale, worn out and in pain, Aramis grabbed his shoulders with both hands. 

Through the pain written on his face, d'Artagnan gave his brother such a beaming smile, one only the young man was capable of and hugged his older brother fiercely. And if the hug disguised the fact that Aramis might just have prevented the young man from falling over, it was nothing the two of them would ever waste any words on. 

“Good to see you,” Aramis muttered, “Come.”

********

After the injuries had been treated and Athos had reported the narrow victory they had achieved, naturally at the cost of no small number of men, it was decided to take the king to the encampment the soldiers had set up not far from the hamlet. They did not trust the Spanish nuns enough to spend more time than necessary here, though the few nuns they had met had been friendly and forthright with them, even provided them with food and had taken care of the horses. But after all, it was still a Spanish convent on Spanish soil, temporarily harboring not only French soldiers but also the French king.

When it was clear that they would ride within the hour, Tréville asked one of the nuns who worked in the infirmary to send for Sister Camille. The latter had helped to take care of the wounded soldiers and had been delighted at the surprise her presence had caused once Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan had caught sight of her. She had also once more inspected and taken care of the king's wounds, while Aramis had been occupied with sewing up and bandaging his fellow brothers. Afterwards she had been called away by the abbess.

A short while after he had sent for her, Sister Camille came to the infirmary where Tréville asked her for a private conversation, absolutely ignoring the look the sister gave him, knowing quite well that it was not appropriate to ask for something like this. But he didn't care and she steered him to a quiet corner between the main building and the church. This was the most privacy she could offer him.

“Marie. Knowing you here, between two front lines, causes me more sorrow than I can say. I fear for the life of you and your sisters. As long as this war goes on, it's not safe for you here, especially with you being French.”

“I thank God that I am right here and was given the opportunity to see you once again. Every day since we have parted ways you are in my thoughts, and I include you in my prayers each night. I am happy and content with the life I have now and would wish for nothing else. If God sends for me tomorrow I am prepared and would die contentedly,” Marie responded, and added quietly, “But know that you are in my heart until the end of my days.”

Tréville took Marie's hands in his, to hell with decorum.

“We never had the chance for a life together, still there was not one day in my life that I have not wished for another twist of fate. But yet, I am glad for the time we had. My duty and my life is at my king's side, but my heart is with you. Always.” 

Marie's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “If God grants us, Jean, we will see each other again. If not, you will always be here.” Marie had taken one of her hands out of Tréville's hold and put it over her heart. Barely audible she added, “My life belongs to God now with all I have, but I'm allowed to falter and struggle. I hope for His forgiveness, because my heart can never completely belong to Him alone.”

That was the last straw for Tréville, who cupped Marie's face with both hands and kissed her; and if it was not as pure and chaste as he had intended to, he couldn't care less.

When Tréville returned to the infirmary a short time later, Athos leaned in the doorway and looked his way. One look at the face of the captain was enough for Tréville to know what Athos had seen.

“The king is ready to ride.”

In that moment Tréville knew that these were the only words Athos would ever utter about what he must have seen happen between Tréville and Marie, and Tréville nodded.

“Then we ride. Let your men mount, four of them will scout ahead, the rest ride in formation. Let the horse for the king be brought directly to the front of the infirmary.”

Tréville disappeared through the door and Athos moved on to do as he was ordered.

When they cleared the courtyard and left the convent, no nun was there so see them off, which was not unexpected.

The king had problems keeping himself upright in the saddle, clearly in pain and suffering, but he was willing to bear the short ride to the encampment with as much royal dignity as he could muster.

********

Four weeks later the king had recovered enough to continue their way to Madrid. Another three weeks later they looked down from the Sierra de Guadarrama onto the capital. On their march they had gathered every able-bodied soldier they could acquire. France was ready to end this war, at all costs.

Tréville was riding on the left side of the king, his head full of strategic thoughts, when his musing was interrupted by the voice of Louis.

“I must say, _général_ , despite all the years, the duchess is still a beautiful woman, isn't she, Tréville?” Louis gave his Minister of War a level look before he spurred his horse and headed to the forefront to ride into Madrid side by side with his soldiers.

 

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a work of fan fiction. The Musketeers are not mine, sadly, but property of BBC One. I have only borrowed the characters and concept, the story and OCs are mine.


End file.
